Darkfeather
by Mr.Hobgoblin
Summary: Outside the city of Markarth a member of the Dark Brotherhood guild tracks down his target, oneshot


The Reach is a jagged and cruel place, full of rocks and boulders that jutted out at odd angles hiding danger, making for a hardy place to live. It seemed to all visitors as if it was impossible to grow crops, to build a home, to have a life worth living in such an awkward and dangerous place.

The paths leading to the city of Markarth mirrored the landscaped of the Reach. It twisted and turned, dodging rocks and flowing around cliff edges making for a much longer and easily ambushed route that claims many visitors.

This would have bothered most visitors but not the Dark Elf currently making his way up the path, for the road to the city of stone was always uphill. He was a nimble specimen, with lean muscles and a dangerous speed hidden by his travel cloak and the bag on his back. Every step he took made it seem light and agile, as if his feet were touching the ground by choice. Gripped tightly in his hands was a hunting bow, a very common weapon in Skyrim.

This visitor of the Reach looked much like any other before him, he could be looking for work in the stone city of Markarth. The civil war had pushed many Mers into the lands controlled by the more accepting Imperials.

However was unlike the other refugees of the east he already had a job, he was a member of a guild of assassins, The Dark Brotherhood.

His target was a Khajiit by the name of Ma'randru-jo, he was a merchant who travelled with one of the Khajiit caravans that went from Markarth to Whiterun. The elf did not know why someone would want him dead, nor did he know whom wanted him dead. In truth he didn't care, all he knew was the Septims were good.

The Dark Elf though back to the conversation he had had with Nazir when he was given the contract back at the Sanctum.

"Happy hunting." Nazir had said, as if he was hunting deer or a rabbit. To an outsider it may seem like a brash way of sending someone to kill another sentient being. In reality to them it was just a job which is how they treated it, like work.

A farmer may complain about the long hours, the smell of animal droppings and a lack of money. Or maybe even missed opportunities. A member of the Dark Brotherhood have far different complaints, such as how far they have to travel and the blunting of their blades. They never complained about the money.

The Dark Elf hit a sharp bend in the path, to those whom have travelled to Markarth before they know it to be a sign that the journey to the city of stone is nearly over. With effortless leaps and bounds the visitor was able to reach atop one of the jagged rocks that bordered the road and disappeared off into the underbrush to the west.

The next time he emerged onto a path he looked very different, his bow and cloak missing. In their place some old miner clothes and dishevelled hair. Along with his now dirty face he looked like he belonged on that road, which went from the Left Hand Mine to the city. He even smelt of iron and the dankness that came from being underground.

It was only a short walk to the entrance of Markarth and the caravan situated outside, where his target was. While passing the caravan he was able to ascertain that there were 4 Khajiit in total, 3 male and 1 female.

The assassin had no idea what Mi'randru-jo looked like, only that he was a male Khajiit, which left him with three possible target. A more impatient assassin may have talked to the Khajiit, acted like a customer and learnt their names that way.

This dark elf however was a model of patience, for three days he walked from Markarth to the mine in the early morning, then back again in the evening. Never slowing down while walking past the caravan or showing any interest at all, in fact. To the Khajiit he would have looked like any other miner, with a routine and no interest in their wares.

He had to rely on his keen hearing and years of training in order to hear what they were saying. In reality he was able to figure out which one was Mi'raandru-jo on the first day. The next couple of days where spent retrieving information on when they planned to leave and what each of their roles in the group where.

First there was Ri'saad, the leader of the caravan and the one whom sat and dealt with the wandering trade, as well as holding all of the Skooma from the others whom appeared to be heavily addicted to the substance.

Atahbah and the target Ma'randru-jo where his helpers, often going into the city and buying supplies. Atahbah was not allowed to carry any money.

Finaly there was Khayla, the only female of the group and their guard, garbed in steel armour with a sword strapped to her belt, a sword which she seemed to hold on to like one would grasp a loved one's hand or a particularly strong bottle of wine.

On the fourth day the caravan packed up and left Markarth down the road the Dark elf had travelled less than a week ago. He was able to retreat back into the underbrush and reach his equipment hidden in a dark crevice with ease. He quickly changed into his Dark Brotherhood garments which were no longer hidden by the travel cloak stored away in his bag.

The caravan was moving at a slow walking pace, making it easy for the Dark Elf to catch up. Having to traverse the wild hidden away from the beaten path seemed to have no effect on his speed.

Soon nightfall fell and the caravan set up camp just off the main path. The three merchants sat around the fire while the guard, well, guarded the camp. Her cat eyes glowed in the moonlight, making her able to see in the dark a whole lot better than the Dark Elf could.

He was not scared of this, he had dealt with Khajiit before and knew how to avoid her gaze. As long as he moved at choice moments and stuck to the rocks he would be okay. Before long he was able to set up on a rock protruding into the sky about 50 metres from the camp.

The Dark Elf stood tall, bow in hand, against the night sky. He pulled an arrow from the quiver in his back and noosed it onto his hunting bow.

What would have taken an average archer precious seconds took the assassin a split second, barely the blink of any eye. The arrow hit the back of the targets head with a sickeningly wet crunch, mixing skull and brain matter into pulp.

The arrow that now protruded from Mi'randru-jo was no ordinary arrow, for it was made of a dark wood and fletched with the blackest of feathers. The Dark Elf was gone before they realised their companion was dead, but it was obvious who killed him.

There was a legend in Skyrim, of an archer who uses arrows said to be as dark as his soul, an almost mythical assassin that sent stabs of fear into those who believed the tales.

They called him Darkfeather


End file.
